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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775901">Champagne and Oil Paint</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury'>immistermercury</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>art student! freddie [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(classics, Chance Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Boys!, M/M, Modelling, Set in NYC, another happy fic, art school boys!, art school lovers, because I'm being nostalgic for the four days I once spent there, come on you know you're curious now, crossed with coffee shop au, here you go, i know)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:15:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775901</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy regarded him with tired curiosity; it wasn’t the first time his work had been destroyed in transit through the bustle of the city, and strangers weren’t usually so alarmed at ruining his work if it meant they got home, to work, to the bars, to the restaurants, any quicker. “Models cost a lot more an hour.” He replied, trying to keep the confused smile from his face. He couldn’t help it if he was pushing a little, being cheeky under the guise of the misery, but it was worth earning a little money if he could help it. </p><p>“How much?” Jim tucked his hair behind his ear, pulling out another ten. “Twenty? Or is it a lot more?”</p><p>“More like fifty, unless you know somebody who’ll sit still for an hour for free while I sketch their outline.” He rested his shoulder on the wall beside him and watched the stranger curiously. </p><p>He bit his lip. “I’ve only got forty.” He said shyly. “Will that do?”</p><p>The boy faltered for a second. “Unless you’ve got an hour to spare.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>art student! freddie [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1232951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is honestly just a little bit of fun! My NYC geography is horrendously flawed, as probably are my descriptions of the subway, but in the spirit of fun, we persist!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The month was June, and t-shirts were beginning to cling to overheated skin, outlining muscles, contouring, colouring. The sun gazed down, her focus intense, on the front windows of the college; she flooded the rooms with rays of her gold, changing the look of paintings that seemed so drab, so uninspired in mid-morning scrutiny. She threw light over coffee spilled on floors speckled with green, amber, black; she relieved sleepy students of another thing to carry besides acrylics, oils, portfolios, canvas.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Footsteps moved from the front door of the building, they hurried to 23 Street Subway, and guarded whatever they could as they jostled together on the 6 train home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those footsteps accompanied cast down eyes, eyes that guarded precious pencils hanging precariously from pockets, eyes that traced footsteps and tried to avoid the footsteps of others. Those eyes were so careful, clocking every store sign, every crack in the pavement, every freshly fallen leaf when he trod the path of Stuyvesant Square Park that could be picked up and smoothed and pressed into something naturally beautiful, and beautifully natural.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What they didn’t see was the barista behind the counter when he ordered his morning coffee at The Bluebell Café.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They didn’t see his hopeful smile, or the curl that fell into his face; they didn’t clock his accent, his pale skin, and they didn’t see the shy heart on the corner of a receipt never retrieved. The worry lines were deep, concerned, focused; there was forever ink caught under his nails, charcoal smudged over his cheeks or the column of his throat. He didn’t exist in a world of noticing others, only ever noticing the world as a whole, one huge still life, never broken down-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a Tuesday, and Jim knew that the boy went home at six on a Tuesday, half asleep as he trudged down the stairs to the subway; he would finish his shift and tear his shirt off, stuffing it into his bag as he replaced it with something a little more special. He would be out of the door just as the boy emerged down the stairs proclaiming the School of Visual Arts, always clutching something that he had no time to finish-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gasped when he heard a yelp, felt his shoulder collide with something, and froze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been three minutes behind schedule, scowling into the distance to try and spot him, and he’d bowled straight into a boy who deserved his attention far more than anybody else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh God-” He whispered, seeing a carefully sketched portrait soaking up muddy water. “Oh my fucking God, I’m so sorry-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Visions of bright blue eyes and styled blonde hair disappeared in the haze of glazed dark eyes, messy hair, made all the more beautiful for the way that they shone with tired disappointment. “It’s alright.” He said quietly, watching it as any semblance of a portrait was washed away by the dirt from the bottom of shoes. He leaned down, gingerly picked up a dry corner, and threw the sopping wet portrait in the bin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jim was horrified to see so much work go to waste. He grabbed his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, quickly thrusting it at him, and stammered out another apology. “Just so you- you can buy more paper.” He bit his lip nervously. “Oh God, it’s not enough, is it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy regarded him with tired curiosity; it wasn’t the first time his work had been destroyed in transit through the bustle of the city, and strangers weren’t usually so alarmed at ruining his work if it meant they got home, to work, to the bars, to the restaurants, any quicker. “Models cost a lot more an hour.” He replied, trying to keep the confused smile from his face. He couldn’t help it if he was pushing a little, being cheeky under the guise of the misery, but it was worth earning a little money if he could help it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How much?” Jim tucked his hair behind his ear, pulling out another ten. “Twenty? Or is it a lot more?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“More like fifty, unless you know somebody who’ll sit still for an hour for free while I sketch their outline.” He rested his shoulder on the wall beside him and watched the stranger curiously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bit his lip. “I’ve only got forty.” He said shyly. “Will that do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy faltered for a second. “Unless you’ve got an hour to spare.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jim widened his eyes. “I’m not a model.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No shit.” The smile finally broke onto his face. “Oh, it’s fine, forget it. You can keep your money. It wasn’t very good anyway.” He turned away, readjusting his portfolio against his chest, and took a few steps towards the subway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jim stood motionless for a few seconds, watching his heavy steps, the wary glances he threw at passersby just a little too close, and he decided he couldn’t let the most beautiful boy in the world escape so easily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He clattered down the stairs, nothing like his own beautiful, graceful steps, but he’d swiped through the barrier before Jim could catch up with him. He fumbled through his pockets for his MetroCard and hastily swiped it, running after him and just squeezing through the doors of the train before they closed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait, listen-” He gasped breathlessly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy squeaked when Jim grabbed his shoulder and jerked away quickly. “What the hell?” He asked quickly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll do it.” He said quickly. “If you need someone for an hour, I mean, or two, I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I- I was joking.” He smiled awkwardly, though he felt bad when the man’s face fell. “Unless- unless you’re really serious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious.” He shook his hand out of his pocket and held it out. “Listen, I think we got off to the wrong start.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy’s smile grew a little warmer and he shuffled his portfolio to balance on one arm as he shook his hand. He let go quickly as the train lurched and sent his papers cascading in the narrow gap between them, trying to grab onto what he could. “Sorry!” He squeaked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, let me-” Jim leaned down to pick up the pictures, shoving someone’s thigh with his shoulder when they threatened to cover a gentle watercolour with the imprint of the bottom of their shoe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked up to hand the papers to the boy, but their foreheads collided; Jim made a little wounded noise and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Shit.” He muttered, but he started to smile when he heard the boy giggling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, we’re terrible at this.” He laughed and took the papers from Jim, carefully rearranging them all. He took a moment to look at him, to study him, the way that one lip quirked higher than the other when he smiled - a deformity caused by years of holding cigarettes in the corner of his mouth, a habit he himself was guilty of - and the curl that hung down, dark against his pale skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was quite attractive, really.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Freddie.” He smiled at the man. “My name. It’s Freddie.” He added when he seemed to have confused the stranger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jim.” He grinned. “Jim Hutton. I work at the Bluebell.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never been there. Everyone I know drinks coffee from there in our lectures and workshops.” He chuckled. “I’m more of a tea person myself. Nowhere sells masala chai that’s as good as the one from Srina Tea on Broadway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, a man after my own heart.” Jim smiled. “I think I’ve spent so long serving coffee that I can’t stand it anymore myself. I might shot an espresso on occasion, but I would never choose to drink coffee for the pleasure of it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I only drink it when I’m in deadline season. I’m majoring in fine art, I’m forever staying up all night to finish a piece.” He shook his head at himself, smile still firm on his face. “SVA, but you could probably tell.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nodded eagerly. “I’ve applied and been rejected three times now. I’d kill to see the inside of there one day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie arched a curious eyebrow. “What course?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Photography and video.” He shrugged. “I’m applying again. We’ll see how it goes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So were you serious?” Freddie asked, leaning on the pole in the centre of the carriage. “About modelling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you want me to.” His smile turned a little more shy. “I ruined your artwork, it’s the least I can do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie rested his portfolio against Jim’s shoulder and dug out an old marker pen. He grabbed Jim’s hand and carefully scrawled a number in sloping copperplate, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. “Call me. I share the phone with the entire hall, though, so ask for Freddie Mercury.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Freddie Mercury.” He repeated, tasting both words on his tongue - champagne and oil paint.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Liquid Gold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Beauty comes alive at the hands of clever fingers and generous hands.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Honestly, guys, this is my favourite thing I've ever written in any of my verses</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Freddie almost couldn’t believe that he had never step foot in this room before; the smell of coffee and charcoal hung low in the air, a heady scent, and his skin prickled with excitement. The room was a series of long wooden benches, golden lights hanging low, a faux sunlight to illuminate the stroke of his pencil - Freddie found himself smiling as he sat in the middle of a bench and carefully set down his portfolio. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laid his pencils out on the table and smoothed out his sketchbook, casting his eyes around the table surreptitiously to see if there was anybody he could sketch who wouldn’t notice, or else would be flattered by the attention. He dreaded the thought of going to order a coffee he wouldn’t want to drink, and instead hoped that they’d have a juice, a cordial, something a little more palatable- the Americans never did tea in the same way the English had, or else the same way the Indians had before them, and he couldn’t get his palate accustomed to the bitter taste of his new home just yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He settled on a girl a few tables away, leaned over her own sketchbook and working furiously; he assumed that she was a little distracted, or else hoped she shared his major and understood his frustration in continuously searching for new people to draw. He started to trace over the curve of her jawline as she sat at such an angle, keeping his strokes gentle, light, just the proper side of abstract, and sucked on his lip as he worked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had agreed to draw the man on the subway in three days’ time, and that they’d meet just beyond the front steps of his faculty, and he’d run through his usual begging - no alterations, no makeup, no haircuts, nothing. He sought honesty and rawness, though it was an impossible task in a city where nobody seemed to have so much as a hair out of place besides himself-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The mug was set before him with only the softest of sounds, and he looked up with guilt smeared across his cheeks. “I- I hadn’t ordered yet.” He said quietly, biting his lip, though he broke into a smile when the man from the subway did the same.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s your first drink here. It’s on the house.” He leaned his hip against the edge of the bench and crossed his arms, smiling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t usually drink coffee.” Freddie glanced at the mug, knowing that he would now have to drink it down to show his appreciation. “It’s a lovely gesture, thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I remember you saying. It was masala chai, wasn’t it, that you liked?” His grin was somewhere between childishly proud and cocky as he pushed the mug closer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie faltered for a moment and then clasped the mug between both his palms, curling his fingers around it carefully once he knew he wouldn’t be scalded; he lifted it to his lips and took a long swallow. It tasted sweet, like molten honey, creamy and rich and smooth as it ran down his throat and warmed him from the inside out: it was unlike anything he’d tasted for years. The mug made a soft sound as it was set down, directly onto paper, as though the very act of pencil on paper had been forgotten to the moment between them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie looked back at him, staying quiet for a few moments until he broke into shy laughter. “I-” He stammered, his cheeks turning pink. “Wow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take that as the biggest compliment I’ve ever received for a drink I’ve made.” Jim’s smile was bright. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It tastes amazing.” Freddie murmured, seeming to break from his trance as he snatched up the mug again for another mouthful. He glanced back at the counter when another man in an apron - an Italian, Freddie could tell from the accent, and clearly a coworker of Jim’s - called at him to return to serving customers. His eyes flickered over the menu for just a second. “This isn’t even sold here!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, you mentioned you liked it, and I thought we could do with some variety.” He replied, his shrug shy though his smile was wide. “You have no idea how tiring it becomes when all you make is different flavoured lattes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I must give you something for it.” Freddie reached for a crumpled five in his pocket and thrust it towards his hand. “Is this enough for the ingredients?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey!” He jumped backwards with a laugh, as though Freddie was trying to thrust a viper between his fingers, and held his hands up in a position of surrender. “You wouldn’t let me pay for your paper, I won’t let you pay for your tea.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But this is a business!” Freddie started to laugh. “Surely you can’t make decisions like that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, we’ll call it good will and one day we’ll forget it ever happened.” He winked as he backed away. “If your mug runs dry, darling, just send me a wave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie laughed again and shook his head, tucking his feet up beneath him as he settled once again at his desk. He lifted his mug only to find a tea stain on his paper, and bit his lip a little agitatedly, staring at the mark for a few seconds. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He set the mug down on a different part of the paper, and then elsewhere, and then elsewhere once again, creating a halo of coffee-tea-sweetness around his subject’s head; the very paper was fragranced with his emotion that moment. His heart, his mind, could only be described in the same way he would’ve described the liquid gold that trailed its way, leisurely and languid, over the flat of his tongue and down the long column of his throat: he had that very same warmth of heart, sweetness of temperament, and the sugar only served to make him happier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could not help but feel that he hadn’t stumbled into a stranger one evening by pure chance, reigniting feelings he thought he had put to bed long ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was late when Freddie placed his pencil down, beyond five o’clock, and he scrutinised the third portrait of the day - all unfinished, all craving details in his fine gold pen that he’d used up three days prior. He was coming to the end of his oil pastels; the white in the pack of his watercolour paints, which he had been so diligently, desperately, squeezing just to extract another fragment of colour; his treasured 2H pencil, the one which had never broken on him, the one that he’d used in every exam since he was sixteen, which was little more than a stump now that he clutched between the pad of his thumb and forefinger. He’d been holding out so that he didn’t lose money for food now that finances were beginning to become tight, so that he wouldn’t have to shamefully go to his tutor once more with his last few dollars crumpled between his fingers and beg for aid just to buy his evening meal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that morning, the morning four hundred dollars had fallen through his letterbox, he’d found a twenty speared on the thorn of a rosebush he’d settled down to sketch, and though it wasn’t much, it was enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fingered the tattered twenty now, and smiled as he collected his pencils together, diligently arranging every one back into its slot. He’d bought every one of them pencil by pencil, gathering core shades, colours he desperately needed, and then bulking out his collection with the special polychromos pencils that he had still never touched, still saving them for his best work, yet to come: his father had scrounged every last rupee the family could afford and handed them to his son in a clatter of spare coins to add another to his collection, forever expanding or replacing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie had always sworn he would sell something drawn with them for millions, one day, and he’d pay every dollar, every pound, every rupee of their money that they’d saved just for him, back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was wondering how you were choosing to spend your evening today?” The familiar Irish voice flowed over to him, as liquid as water through a stream, as Jim approached him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This evening?” He replied, faltering with a smile on his face as he traced the pad of his thumb back and forth over the head of his eraser. “I- well, I’d love to pretend it’s something exciting, but I was planning on taking the subway up near Central Park to go and buy myself some new pencils.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and how isn’t that exciting?” He sat half his body on the table and watched the care that Freddie took as he smoothed each page of his sketchbook before closing it. “You wouldn’t believe how long it is since I last went up there. I seem to spend the majority of my life caught between these walls.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s the pace of life.” Freddie looked up from under dense hair, and denser eyelashes, and Jim found himself feeling oh-so-lucky that the attention of those eyes was all on him. “Days pass you by and suddenly you remember that there’s more to this city than a college and a bed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t have put it better myself.” He smiled. “I don’t suppose you’d be seeking company, would you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie couldn’t help the cheeky smile that crossed his face as he stood upright. “Why say it in that way?” He laughed. “Should I put my hand on you like this so you can walk with me, like I’m some kind of Victorian woman?” He joked, resting his hand on Jim’s bicep; he immediately rolled his eyes when he felt him flex. “Oh, please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That usually works!” He laughed. “Oh, sue me. I’d like it if you took me on your errands for the evening.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Said nobody ever.” He chuckled and picked up his portfolio. “If you’d like to come, darling, then you’re very welcome to. But it really won’t turn into an evening of debauchery and champagne, I’m afraid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s a Wednesday, debauchery never happens on a Wednesday.” He grinned; he wasn’t afraid to tease him just a little, now he could tell the attention was welcome. “Come on, then, take me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie found himself unsure of what to do with his hands - he wondered, just for a moment, whether he’d accept it if he carefully interlaced their fingers, but he thought better of it. He wouldn’t ruin their moment of fun by taking it all a little too seriously. Instead, he clasped both hands tightly around his portfolio, taking away any questions of rights and wrongs as they walked alongside one another. He found himself taking little glances at the man beside him, at his </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopeful smile, and the curl that fell into his face; they clocked his accent, his pale skin, and wanted to know so much more about him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shit!” Freddie felt fingers seize one of his wrists tightly. “The train’s already here!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They clattered down the stairs together this time, laughing breathlessly; Freddie’s card didn’t work until he swiped it the fourth time, and by the time they’d reached the platform, the train was long gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.” Freddie leaned his hands on his thighs, his portfolio carefully leant up against his leg, and laughed as he panted. “Oh, I thought we had that then!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We would’ve, if your card hadn’t been shitty.” Jim chuckled and carefully took his arm, inspecting the bright red ring around his wrist that had been left by his fingers. “Oh, fuck, sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t even notice it.” Freddie stood back up and shook out his wrist. “It doesn’t hurt, we’re all okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Jim’s smile was indulgent and warm, and Freddie’s returning one was happy. “Where are we getting off?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“68 Street. It’s only a block away.” Freddie found himself laughing. “You certainly make things more interesting, don’t you? I don’t think I’ve ever run for a train that hard in my life, and it’s not even like we have anywhere to be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’ve got people that’ll be worried if you aren’t getting home soon.” Jim chuckled. “Got to make the most of this time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I live on my own.” Freddie’s smile was a little shyer. “I’m the master of my own time. If I don’t want to go home until three o’clock in the morning, then that’s my choice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll hold you to that.” He winked, sensing the subject was a little sensitive. “We could go for a walk afterwards, if you’d like, seeming as we’re so close to Central Park.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“With this thing?” Freddie lifted up his portfolio as the train approached. “You can’t walk for more than five minutes without getting cramp in your arms.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jim took it off him and grinned, gesturing for him to step on first amongst the bustle of the evening commuters. “Then I suppose I’ll have to pull my weight, won’t I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie was entirely right; it took three minutes of keeping it clasped to his chest to realise that Freddie must either have biceps fourteen times stronger than his own, or else have permanent grooves in his arms. “You really don’t have to keep it.” Freddie told him for the fourth time as he circled a stand of watercolours, searching for the zinc white, though he was distracted by a tube of rose quartz that he most definitely didn’t need, and didn’t have room for in his budget, and yet he had fallen in love with anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You need to have your hands free!” Jim insisted, though he shifted its placement for the fourth time in the last thirty seconds. “You need to be able to look for- for-” He squinted at the sign above the paints to the right of him. “Goo-ache.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gouache.” Freddie laughed. “You can put it down on the floor, I really don’t mind. I know it’s awfully cumbersome. I strapped everything up, so nothing will get ruined.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gingerly put it down on the floor and shook his arms out, the movement so violent it momentarily startled Freddie. “It’s not that bad!” He rolled his eyes playfully. “Take this off of me. I want it but I don’t need it and if I buy it I’ll have to sacrifice something I actually need.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How much does it cost?” He asked, turning over the tube in his hand. “It’s a pretty colour.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s only two dollars, but I only brought twenty with me and the set of oil pastels is really rather expensive.” Freddie glanced longingly at it again and sighed wistfully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can’t you just buy it anyway? On top of everything else?” He asked, handing it back. “It seems a shame to leave it here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t got the money with me for it.” He placed it back on the shelf and retrieved the white instead. “I don’t allow myself to come here too often because I always get caught up in wanting everything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t tell me firstly that you don’t have the money to spend on pretty things, and then tell me that you consider this an occasional indulgence!” Jim found a crumpled two dollar bill in his pocket and handed it to him. “I’ve always thought art students are like fairies. You survive on sweet things and pretty things instead of needing food and water like the rest of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie eventually took the bill and smoothed it between his fingers, though his cheeks turned rosy. “I’m afraid the problem is that we need food as much as anybody else.” He said shyly. “I can’t take your money.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not. I gave it to you, which means it’s yours. If you hand it to me then I’m actually taking your money.” He grinned. “Buy the pretty paint, come on. You can repay me by painting me something with it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie glanced up at him and smiled. “Thank you.” He replied shyly, picking up the rose quartz paint again; Jim watched the way he handled it as though it was his most precious possession.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s no problem. It’s only two dollars.” He chuckled and followed Freddie as he headed for the pastels. “You’ll have to teach me about this stuff one day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’re coming to my studio on Saturday, so I’ll start then.” Freddie cast a smile over his shoulder and then noticed his bare arms. “Don’t forget the portfolio!”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie’s stomach hurt from laughing, his lips were sticky with raspberry sauce, and he had ice cream on the end of his nose. Jim had practically wrestled with him to admit that yes, in fact, he would very much enjoy an ice cream that summer’s evening, and he looked on with immense enjoyment at the sight of the boy so happy, a bag of art supplies in one hand - maybe he’d slipped a set of brushes into the pile and another five in Freddie’s hand when he’d told him about how battered his old, faithful brushes had become, but it was worth it for the smile on his face. His portfolio was laid out on the grass next to them, thrown open from where he’d shown Jim every one of his works he was most proud of, though one of his old drawings had flown out and down the pathway-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie thought he might have fallen in love when Jim ran down the path and jumped to retrieve it from the thieving hands of the evening air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This evening has been wonderful.” Freddie crossed his legs and smiled. “I- I didn’t wake up this morning thinking I’d enjoy today so much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s been nice to do something after work, for once, instead of just going home and staring at the television.”  Jim grinned back at him. “I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in a long time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Me neither.” Freddie glanced once more at the bag at his feet and then looked back at him. “I promise I’ll pay you back for those brushes and the paint. I’ll come to the café tomorrow, I’ll pay for my tea and these from today, I insist.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, how are you ever going to get a taste for luxury if you insist on paying for things? All the best things in life are free.” He leaned in a little and tucked Freddie’s hair back from his face, and electricity crackled where their skin touches; the breath caught a little in his throat. “Call it a treat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I barely know you.” Freddie whispered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you like to get to know me better?” He asked, letting his fingertips just skim his shoulder before his hand fell back into his lap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The blush was scorching this time; Jim swore he could almost feel it from where he was sitting. “Of course I would.” He murmured.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then that’s all the paying back I’d like.” He gently touched Freddie’s fingers with his own, and felt encouraged when he didn’t snatch his hand away. “Are we still on for Saturday?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Freddie whispered, though it felt more as though the words were commanded from him; he was floating, a signet amongst the ripples of a lake, an autumn leaf in the disappearing summer breeze, cast along on the tide of the strength of his emotions. “I may-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can-” Jim started at the same time, though they soon broke off and smiled shyly. “You go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no, you.” Freddie insisted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was only going to say that if you- if you grow bored at any time this week, you could always come and meet me again at the café.” He admitted, his own cheeks beginning to warm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was going to say that I may well do that.” Freddie’s grin was bright and he carefully reached forward to take Jim’s hand properly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You- you may think I’m rushing.” Jim shifted so he was sat on his knees on the grass, just a little closer. “Maybe I am. I was wondering, if maybe- if I could kiss you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Freddie bit his lip, his cheeks aching from smiling, and nodded. “Of course you can.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now?” He asked. “Could I- could I kiss you now? Here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now.” Freddie repeated, watching him hesitate for a moment before he leaned closer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hand came up to cradle his cheek as their lips met, soft and sweet and chaste; Freddie found himself leaning a little closer, his hand on Jim’s shoulder, as he kissed back. His mind was a whirlwind, a polyphony of singing, happy voices, voices of love, excitement, the fresh breaking of a new dawn, of a new man, of the end of yearning and the beginning of-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jim pulled away, giving them a few moments to look at one another, and Freddie felt butterflies in his tummy; he didn’t yet know what it was the beginning of. All he knew was that it felt right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He leaned in and kissed Jim again, a little more deeply, still slow, still chaste, until the butterflies had flown to the palms of his hands and the ends of his toes, until he could feel the beating of their wings beneath his skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they broke apart, he was quiet, shy, unable to look up for a moment as he came to terms with the feeling, the unsteady liveliness, of his own body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One finger hooked under his chin, encouraging him to look up, to be confident, to be brave, and he smiled when he saw the smile on Jim’s face; no matter what, those eyes felt safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t I walk you to the subway station?” Jim suggested, taking his hand again. “It’s the number six train, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's gonna be a few more parts to this (I'm sure you can guess what!) so you can look forward to them! In the meantime, kudos and comments make me write faster, so power me up, kids!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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